


the braided cover of love

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Multi, Oh Fronk!, Pre-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, What Happens At The Erebus & Terror Ball Stays At The Erebus & Terror Ball, ma nishtanah halailah hazeh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: If this was what Sophia wanted as well, how could he deny either of them? And, feeling unmoored, Francis had not the strength to deny to himself that, having had a taste of the inside of James’s mouth, hot and welcoming, he wished for more, would take it if it was offered, might even— on this strange night— find it in himself to ask for it.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier, Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Sophia Cracroft/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 24
Kudos: 46





	the braided cover of love

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [reserve](/users/reserve) for the beta & for reminding me of the existence of [this pic,](https://i.imgur.com/qi5PYrc.jpg) which really says it all tbh. 
> 
> title is from ["treasure" by aldous harding.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obM3HYoy69A)

Time slowed to a crawl as the glass tilted out of Francis’s grip, and sped up as soon as he failed to catch it. 

He stared down at his wrongdoing: a sad puddle of brown in the lap of Sophia’s cream-and-lace gown, soaking quickly into the fabric. 

“Forgive me, Miss Cracroft, you must think me an oaf—” 

“It’s quite alright,” said Sophia, with a tolerant smile. “No, really, it is. I’m in need of some freshening up after all that dancing, anyway.”

She rose, her eyes on the hatchway that led down to the lower deck and the ladies’ dressing-rooms, and Francis rose with her, altogether too eagerly, standing with his hands behind his back as though to nod a superior officer out the door. 

But she didn’t go— she looked up at him, and said, “Accompany me, for if you don’t, you’re likely to be asked to dance again. Is that what you’re in the mood for?” 

She was precisely correct; the very idea was threat enough. Francis had already danced with every lady here; in the arms of another his eye was drawn inexorably back to Sophia and such distraction made him a poor partner, embarrassingly so. 

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a sigh and a shake of the head. 

Sophia gave his arm a gentle, affectionate squeeze. Francis was, not for the first time that evening, grateful that Lady Jane was not in attendance at the ball, for her aunt’s presence without fail made Sophia shy and reticent. Much better to have her uneclipsed and true, as she was now. 

She led him on, through the crowd on _Erebus’s_ wide quarterdeck. Francis did not know the time. It may have been hardly past midnight, or the sun might be just about to break over the harbor; the part of his well-trained mind usually dedicated to keeping the hours had been repurposed for the evening, transformed into something akin to a magnetic instrument, its needle inexorably drawn to Sophia. 

Without the barrels and boxes of supplies and sailing-gear that normally occupied the space, the deck held dozens of couples with ease, all spinning their way across the planks. The unflagging Hobart Town Quadrille Band still occupied their stage aft of the mainmast, playing a bouncing melody to speed them on. 

Off to the side, Sir John held court with a bevy of officers as well as his daughter Eleanor. In her lacy pink gown she’d drawn the eye of many a handsome lieutenant throughout the night, but amusingly, she seemed only to have eyes for young Dr. Hooker, whose shyness had the unfortunate tendency to veer right into willful ignorance. Earlier that night Francis had overheard him babbling on about the provenance of the yellow wattle that decorated the entrance to the ballroom that was _Erebus,_ while Eleanor looked on, nodding in deep interest, despite the fact that Francis knew her to care little for plants and biology (indeed, little for anything, other than dresses and perfumes). Her simpering look at every one of Hooker’s idiosyncratic gesticulations told the true story, however unlikely— and yet Hooker took no notice, not even as Eleanor leaned in ever closer and closer. 

Francis had had to restrain himself from clapping the young naturalist upside the head. If Sophia gave him a look like that, he’d be the luckiest man this side of Rossbank. To be young did not excuse such naivety; perhaps being a prodigy did, but even geniuses must marry. With any luck someone with more patience than Francis would dedicate themself to enlighten the child; he had half an idea of assigning McMurdo to the cause come morning. 

As they crossed the deck Francis caught a glimpse of himself and Sophia in the rows of mirrors that had been strung up over nearly every surface. Brought with the expedition—as was tradition— they would serve as trading goods for any natives they might come across. In the reflection, his dress uniform’s braid and buttons gleamed thanks to young Jopson (and to think, at the launch of the expedition he’d tried to fob the steward off, uncomfortable with the idea of being attended to) and his hair, swept back from his forehead, had stayed miraculously put. 

But the most unbelievable element of the image was Sophia beside him; golden, alive. Of the ladies on the ship, in all of Hobart, in all of this hemisphere and perhaps the world, he’d never met anyone like her. 

He tore his gaze away, then, before the picture could dissolve and reveal him in truth to be companionless, and descended the ladder down the hatchway first so that he could help Sophia down. 

_Erebus’_ s Great Cabin, normally James’ domain, was even more unrecognizable than the upper deck. The mahogany quarters where Francis had so often beaten James at chess; pored over charts; shared drinks and reminisces; tried to hold back laughter at the sight of McCormick’s apoplexy when James accidentally tipped over one of the good doctor’s specimen cases, seemed to belong to another world. 

Garlands festooned the walls and ceiling; delicate lace-edged cloths had been draped over the bookshelves and map-cases. The same native yellow wattle that decorated the entrance to the ball was here in force, as a component in the room’s many bouquets, as well as daisy-chained over the lintels and windows. 

More of the trading-mirrors dangled from every surface as decoration, in addition to the larger mirrors placed upright at intervals on the central table, to serve as the ladies’ dressing-stations, which also included basins, napkins, and little dishes of hair-pins. 

Sophia took a seat at the table in a chair that had been wrapped in colorful ribbons, and took off her delicate shoes, giving her dance-pained feet a rest. Francis handed her his handkerchief and, feeling not a bit useless, stood beside her in an awkward lean with one hand on the table. 

“They’ll be talking of nothing but this night for years, you know,” she said conversationally, dipping the cloth in the basin and beginning to scrub away industriously at her skirt. “The most glorious ball this dreary little town has ever known.”

“It is quite the achievement,” Francis agreed. 

“And those mirrors! How beautiful, I know I said it already, but it bears repeating. Like a fairy-tale!” 

“Captain Ross’s idea,” admitted Francis, not letting on that he’d thought the concept unbearably silly and tried to veto it during one of the committee meetings. The thought of being threatened at every corner with glimpses of himself— well, he hardly could’ve let himself believe those views would include Sophia alongside.

“If I were ever to captain a ship,” said Sophia, with a dreamy sigh, “I’d leave such decorations up all the time— for luck, for beauty. Sometimes I worry you go too long without beauty on your voyages. I’ve seen the engravings, your Mr. Davis’s paintings— those views are so severe! Better to have some gentleness to look upon each day.” 

The very idea of the prepossessing Miss Cracroft as a ship’s captain, tricorn hat and all, would have caused any wardroom to burst into astonished, gleeful mockery. 

But Francis did not find it funny. He found it wonderful. She would take to command like a penguin to the ice— maneuvering with ease, taking great leaps and landing on her feet. 

“The idea is a lovely one,” he said honestly, “but I take issue with its basis. There is beauty aboard a ship, even discounting what sights we see off the bow.”

Sophia smiled. “Ah yes. Of course—the men.” 

Francis felt himself flush red. That was hardly what he had meant: he’d been thinking of the elegance of the rigging, the soothing symmetry of the ship’s wheel. He tried to come up with a joking protest, but before he could, Sophia let out a loud sigh of disappointment. 

“This is no use,” she said, flinging the handkerchief aside in frustration. “The brocade soaked it right up, and won’t let it go.” 

“My mother had a remedy,” mused Francis, “lye and salt and boiling water, for whisky stains… “ 

And immediately, he directed a curse inwards: how could he let such a mention tumble from his mouth, surely filling Sophia’s head with unpalatable images of his poor upbringing, rough-and-tumble and horribly Irish? 

But then her smile, always a curious thing, untamable and unpredictable, appeared on her face, and Francis as ever felt caught in it like a tide.

“She should be so proud to find you promoting her ways, on the other side of the Earth,” she said kindly. “If there was any lye here at hand, we might honor her by giving it a try.” 

“Let me look in the pantry,” offered Francis quickly, but Sophia rose from her seat, and put a hand on his arm to stop him from going.

“No, no. See now, I know what I’ll do,” she declared with a flourish, tossing the handkerchief to the table. “I’ll turn the whole thing inside out— the lining is the same color as the stain.” 

“That’s— very daring of you, Miss Cracroft.”

“I aim to start a trend,” Sophia answered, with a toss of her hair. The curls at her temples, so perfectly coiled at the beginning of the evening, had lost some of their shape, frizzing slightly, and she looked ever the more lovely for it.

“Oh, I see,” said Francis. “Yes, of course. By tomorrow every lady from here to Sydney will be wearing their ballgowns inside out, and what’s more, they’ll know you were the cause.”

Her answering laugh was bright as coins falling from palm to tile. With a gentle hand to her arm Francis leaned in, meaning to kiss her, and got quite close in the approach before there came a sound, and he looked up to see none other than James Ross lingering in the doorway.

“Sorry, old boy,” James said with a discreet cough, “conversation was flagging up top, thought I’d fetch some of our maps to show off to the men from town…” 

Before Francis could make his own excuses, Sophia’s voice rang out: “Pay us no heed! Captain Crozier was just helping right his wrong.” 

This brought a merry, mischievous look to James’ face. “Oh, what’ve you done now, Frank?” 

Francis gestured with some measure of shame to the stain on Sophia’s gown. 

“Say no more!” laughed James, striding up to them and inspecting the damage. “It’s not as bad as it might be, Miss Cracroft. Once, as I recall, your Captain upended a whole cask of red paint into one of Parry’s costume trunks during preparations for a theatrical. Closest he ever came to a lashing, and I’ve never seen him so penitential after!” 

As Francis gave James an unalloyed glare he winked rakishly, and disappeared inside his berth.

Sophia spun around, motioning to the ties of her dress. “If you’d be so kind,” she said, and Francis grunted an assent, and began, willing his hands not to shake, to undo the knots that held them in place. 

She slipped out of the gown with his help and all of a sudden was before him in her ivory stays and white petticoats, plain and radiant, toes curling in stockinged feet. 

Francis had not forgotten James was there. Sophia might have, and might believe he had as well, and he would let her, but his awareness of James was not something he could turn off like a lamp. It was a star, shining no matter the weather. Even as his urge found fulfillment and he kissed her deeply— however many times it happened, he was still in awe, for each time felt like the first and threatened to be the last— he could sense James nearby, moving, alive. 

Thus, even otherwise distracted, he didn’t miss the sound of gentle shuffling as James, bless him, tried to make his way out of the cabin unnoticed. 

Neither, it seemed, did Sophia. She pulled away from Francis, in time to arrest James in mid-step with just a glance before he could reach the exit.

Even as the very air of the cabin stretched taut between them, Francis felt a great surge of affection for James, for his courtesy, his attempted kindness. Francis did not let go of Sophia— in fact, he tightened his grip on her— but as he did so she looked to James, and something passed between them that Francis could not be certain he understood. 

“How impolite of me,” said Sophia, “to leave you out, Captain Ross. Come here.”

He approached her, mild confusion writ in his brow. Francis watched as she beckoned him in yet closer, and then, still safe in Francis’s hands, she pressed a kiss to his mouth, the very equal of the one she’d given Francis. He watched her, still held by him, melt against his best friend, their scents intermixing: Sophia’s lavender and honey, James’s hair oil and strong soap; underneath it all a unifying note of exertion that spoke of their earlier activities, dancing on the upper deck. 

(She had danced with all of the officers, James included, and Francis did not— _could_ not have missed her enthusiasm when welcomed into James’s arms, could not have helped himself from comparing his commander’s grace and ease to his own heavy-footed steps.) 

When Sophia drew back, her face was flushed with pleasure.

“You’ve been wanting to do that,” James said in a low voice.

“Who at this ball could say they have not?” Sophia said. 

James tossed his hair— he himself would not deny it, he had always been well aware of his own blessings and proud of them, too. “You’re very kind, Miss Cracroft.” 

“Go on,” she said now to him. 

“Pardon?”

Her coy smile at first, directed at James, gave Francis thought that she meant to kiss him again, which he understood— in his epaulettes and shining boots James was the very model of a man a lady like Sophia would desire. He was attractive, honorable, renowned. 

(Indeed, it had been as if a spotlight had been upon him the whole night. Sitting next to him at the dinner table aboard _Terror_ Francis could not have missed the gazes directed at him, the whispers and mooning giggles from all corners.)

But then Sophia’s gaze moved to Francis, giving an indicating nod back towards James, and he was struck with an understanding that immediately he tried to reason with, find the flaws in. How much champagne had he drank? It had flowed as freely as water up on deck, but surely it was not enough to cause dreams to enter the waking world...

“Captain Ross,” Sophia said, “would you be so kind as to complete the circle? I have a penchant for symmetry, and it simply must be satisfied. That is, if you don’t mind,” she said to Francis. 

He could only shake his head. She raised an eyebrow. “I— I don’t mind,” he managed aloud, and looked to James. 

This night, different to all other nights. Things become other than what they are. Two ships, lashed together, become a grand ballroom. A captain’s cabin becomes a ladies’ dressing room. And James Ross, handsomest man in the Navy, kisses his second in command.

They had never, ever done this— could Sophia have known, when she’d asked? All those nights spent in midshipmen’s berths, cold observatories, seeking each others’ warmth and touch, as one did, it had been pricks and hands only, perhaps his nose in James’s neck to stifle his own cries, or vice-versa— but never a kiss, never this ultimate of intimacies. Never James’s fingers cupping Francis’s jawline, a strong thumb swept over the rise of Francis’s cheek. 

When they parted, after an unknown interval, Francis was breathing hard, and James likewise seemed somehow— askew, even as he remained visibly unruffled, poised as ever. 

He recognized that look in James’s eye. It was the same look he’d worn their last season in the ice, when, during the discovery of Franklin Island, after Francis suggested they simply lay a hand on the land, fearful of the waves that surged powerfully over the gunwale of _Terror’s_ whale-boat.

“Ah! Old boy, if I put my hand on it, the body must follow,” James had said with exuberance, clapping Francis on the shoulder, and then with a great leap had sprung nimbly upon the rock and claimed it for Queen and Country. Francis had not believed himself capable of making the jump as well, and yet, spurred on by an encouraging gesture from James, he’d soon found himself safely across. 

Francis saw that James would not stop at a mere kiss. _The body must follow,_ indeed— Sophia had thrown down a gauntlet, one he could hardly resist taking up. 

Thus Francis was not surprised when James laid down the maps he carried on the dressing-table, indicating he meant to remain. 

Sophia, her gown a mess on the floor, looked once down at it, once to James, and then with a nod of her head directed him to the long cushioned bench at the far end of the Great Cabin. He went with alacrity and sprawled handsomely, hands behind his head and legs akimbo. To Francis, already moved by the sight of Sophia in her bare arms and underthings, this was a heady addition. 

“Everyone who ought to be here is here,” Sophia said, “would you agree?”

Francis, distracted utterly by James’s pose, didn’t catch her meaning until James cried, “The door, Frank! She means the door.” 

Well. If this was what Sophia wanted as well, how could he deny either of them? And, feeling unmoored, Francis had not the strength to deny to himself that, having had a taste of the inside of James’s mouth, hot and welcoming, he wished for more, would take it if it was offered, might even— on this strange night— find it in himself to ask for it. 

He was not a man given to poetry. The only poetry he knew was that of a ship through water, that of wind in sails. Nothing of words, unless he could be given leave to use Irish, as he did perhaps unwisely only hours earlier following James’s toast, and even then he was limited in his eloquence, a mild debility of words that had stalked him since days of childhood rhetoric lessons.

This, here, was something he must be willing to leave to the real poets: the explanation of how a man’s heart could have enough room to hold two such souls, in equal esteem; with difference in history but none in affection, none in desire. It was uncommon, but he was an uncommon man, and this was an uncommon night. Two ships made into one ballroom, yes; and below decks, a second with two firsts. 

He walked to the door, closed it and locked it, wishing he had an unspilled glass to down in one go before proceeding. But without one there was little left to do but turn and face the others. 

“Nothing hazard, nothing win,” he muttered, and James heard, and grinned: it was the motto of Dr. McCormick, and brought to mind a suitable spirit of adventure. 

Sophia walked to him, grabbed him by the lapels and, kissing him, backed up to where James lay. She brought herself down on him, situating herself forwards on his lap as Francis leaned over the both of them, kissing Sophia, bracing his arms on either side of James there on the ledge. 

James sighed as her weight settled atop him; she let out a soft sound into Francis’s mouth as James’s hands found her stomach and her breasts, and her hand in turn came around Francis’s waist. He thought for a moment she would reach for his flies, where beneath his starched trousers he’d been growing slowly harder ever since he loosed the ties of her gown, but instead she moved her kisses across his face until her mouth was at his ear. 

“Duty owing below decks, Captain,” she said, and pressed him down at the shoulders until he kneeled at her skirts. 

“Would that I never taught you sea-words,” Francis groaned, playing at anger, but his tongue already felt thick in his mouth, so eager was he to do as she asked of him. 

“Oh, but they do so come in handy!”

“You’ll train her up to be your second yet,” James said, with an easy, proud smile at Sophia. Francis, gazing upwards, watched her kiss him again then, sweetly and graciously, perhaps a hair longer than he should have, for his own heart’s safety. 

But when he lifted her skirts, ducked his head beneath, and found her gratifyingly ready for him, he was all but totally soothed. With a soft and careful finger he rubbed and pressed at her, was rewarded by a shiver and a sigh, and then lowered his mouth and dedicated himself to his task. 

He had, indeed, craved this ever since first being allowed it, nearly a year ago, the biggest surprise in an evening full of them. It had only been once or twice since then— Sophia, inscrutably mercurial, would oft not even allow a kiss, let alone this— so Francis treasured the taste of her, not knowing when next he’d be granted it.

If she had still been in her heavy brocade gown, the sound from outside would have been muffled far more completely; he wondered if he should count himself lucky or unlucky that she was not, that he could hear through her petticoats the unmistakable noise of her and James’s embrace above, kissing and caressing as Francis attended. That Sophia desired James was no secret; on any other evening he might have deflected her affections by begging his own engagement, but it seemed the golden light of champagne flowing through both their veins had done much to open their hearts. 

(Francis could not help but think of wine drunk at the fairy table in his mother’s stories, and how it would entrance and trap unsuspecting travelers, and thought he would not really mind remaining here forevermore.) 

He did his best now to draw out moans from her, trying with every swipe of his tongue to interrupt those indistinct necking-noises from above with more definitive calls. 

Satisfyingly, he heard his Christian name cried out— “Oh, _Francis!”_ — and felt one of her feet curl insistently at his back, and then, as he sped his efforts, the other one hooked round as well, her legs clutching him in closer, closer. 

Eventually with one hand steady on her soft thigh he slipped a finger of the other into her, below his still-working mouth, deliberate and slow, and was rewarded soon after with the sensation of her thighs quaking around his head, and exultant cry, this one tellingly wordless.

After a moment Sophia pushed herself off to the side, sliding off James’s lap into a lean against his right side, her face on his shoulder, one of her hands landing on his thigh. 

Francis took hold of it, kneeling now between James’s spread legs, and pressed kisses up her bare arm. If he closed his eyes as he did so he could imagine it was him and her alone; or perhaps just him and James: James dressed in Sophia’s gown, stainless and perfect, looking very like a porcelain doll as he had as a midshipman in an Arctic winter theatrical, cheeks red from the cold, desperately needing Francis to warm him up after he took his curtsy and left the stage… 

He shifted, slightly, his knees beginning to ache, and realized with a start that against his arm he could feel James’s prick, straining inside his crisp dress trousers. 

Experimentally he leaned at it, giving it some friction with his shoulder. “Christ, Frank,” came the response, James shuddering against him, “warn a man!”

“Aye, I’ll do that,” said Francis, “and more besides, if you’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” James exclaimed, as if the thought were laughable. “I welcome it! Come, then.” With one strong arm James helped Francis from his stooped position up onto the bench, where he then turned towards him, kicking one leg over and around, making a wide angle of access there on their narrow domain. 

For Sophia’s benefit Francis loosed James’s lovely, familiar prick all the way from his shirttails and trousers, instead of sequestering his hand beneath the layers as was their longtime mutual habit. 

The crude seamen’s rumors ran that James had a beast of a prick, as befitting his prestige and rank, but Francis was privileged to know the true shape of that renowned member. In point of fact it was not hulking or heavy at all but _pretty,_ long, with a slight curve to it, now reddened and standing proud. Francis took his thumb to it and spread the slickness beading at its tip downwards, drawing a happy gasp from his Captain. 

He gathered James close and thought, for just a moment, that he would kiss him again, but as James’s lips neared he refrained, merely bringing their foreheads together, James’s nose brushing slightly against his own. 

From this vantage, Francis could look down and see his own hand wrapped around James’s cock, or look over James’s shoulder and see Sophia just beyond, rapt with enthrallment. He watched, slightly distracted, as she rucked up her petticoat and slid her fingers underneath, but soon found his purpose again in addressing James’s pleasure.

“I see you know how he likes it,” Sophia remarked with a knowing tone. James was groaning into Francis’s neck with every pull of his hand. 

“Plenty of practice,” gasped James. “But, I admit,we’ve— not had an audience before.” 

Still stroking in earnest, with his other hand Francis cupped at James’s balls, a practiced motion that was rewarded with a choked gasp, and James throwing his head back, finding a soft landing on Sophia’s shoulder. 

“Is that so? How do you rate me?” said Sophia, nuzzling into the bared expanse of James’s pale neck, combing one hand through his fine, burnished hair even as the other, unseen, made haste beneath her own petticoats. 

“Better than— _ah—_ a full crowd at the Royal Opera House, my lady,” gasped James, grinding up into Francis’s hand.

Francis agreed. The difference Sophia made was tremendous; wanting to do well by James was a long-known quantity, of course, but with Sophia’s eyes on them both the stakes were raised. It may have been the finest pulling-off James had received in his life, judging by the way he bit at his lip, cursed aloud, grabbed at Francis’s arm. 

A quirk of timing or perhaps another element of the night’s uncommon magic: James came off into Francis’s hand just as Sophia cried out, reaching her own crisis, her lashes fluttering and pink lips stretching into an expression of bliss. 

James sagged forward into Francis’s arms, and he caught him. They were both breathing hard. Still he did not kiss him, though he wanted to very badly now.

“Bravo, bravo!” cried Sophia, clapping in a playful mimicry of a theatrical ovation. 

James reached down, and let out a scandalized gasp. “Frank, you’ve been neglected!” 

He was not wrong. Francis was achingly hard still, all the more for James’s weight still half-against him, and the sounds of Sophia’s second release ringing in his ears.

“So he has!” Sophia exclaimed. “Oh, we must attend to him— but what would you prefer, Captain?”

Francis looked from her to James, then back again. His head swam: what a choice! He put his mind to it as he gently and unobtrusively plucked one of the draped doilies from nearby to clean his hand with, and James’s buttons and collar as well, where a few spots of spend glistened innocently. “Take your time, now,” James teased. 

Francis tossed the cloth aside and ran a hand through his hair— it was surely beyond presentability now, but no matter— and swallowed before venturing, “Your mouth, I think.” 

James made a pleased face, that proud smirk Francis knew he wore when he’d been proven right in some bet he’d set inside his own head.

Sophia righted herself and guided the proceedings: she had James stand so that Francis could come and sit where he’d been, alongside Sophia. Then with a gentle hand, she pulled his head down to rest in her lap, as James set to work on Francis’s flies. 

Francis was aware that people wanted to please him. It was something he relied upon as a commander: it had gotten him past such barriers as might have trammeled others with his background, this ability to engineer loyalty, to bring about a spirit of affinity amongst those in his charge. He thought, idly, that such a phenomenon could be in play at this very moment. It was inherent in the uniform, in the way he’d learned to carry himself. A well-practiced, hard-earned trick of the light.

Then James bent low, swallowing Francis’s cock with a confidence and enthusiasm which was no illusion at all. Francis looked skywards and caught Sophia’s gaze, light and delighted, and it was almost too much. 

He shut his eyes tight against the rush of sensation, but he was held fast, and he felt everything: caught now between two poles, the dipping needle horizontal at the equator. The tight heat of James’s mouth on his prick, the soft kisses Sophia pressed to his forehead; one of his hands buried in James’s hair and the other clenched in Sophia’s petticoats as waves of pleasure swept him up. He tried to hold onto it; lest it all dissipate in a cloud of drink and leave him adrift and alone. He wanted to remember evermore. 

This was no quick frig in the gunroom; nor was it furtive necking in the parlor while Lady Jane entertained the lieutenants upstairs. It was something that might rightfully be enacted over freshly pressed white sheets, in a clean and sunlit room, with plenty of space to spread and see and stroke and suck.

But— it must be said that this room did hold them, and held them well. The mirrors captured their image all around and did not shatter with improbability; the flowers released their scent and the calm harbor cradled the ship and their cabin within it with the care and grace of a mother.

Someone coming down the quay might glance up at the lit windows at _Erebus’_ s bow and see, silhouetted in lamplight, a sight that could hardly be believed: Sophia had lifted Francis so that she could bend and reach his mouth with hers; and James was taking Francis yet deeper, strong hands clasped round his thighs.

They were all well-soaked. They had all eaten and drank at the same table, loaded high with cakes and meats and cut-crystal glasses that splashed their contents about and caused accidents with surprising outcomes. The remarks were likely still flowing above, from seamen and townspeople alike: _“I’ve not seen anything of its like before.” “Once in a century, a night this glorious!” “It hardly feels real, don’t you think?”_

And meanwhile Francis, below, was being brought closer and closer to his finish. “James, I’m near—” he tried to warn, but his voice was caught and held by Sophia’s tongue, and he succumbed to her kisses. No matter in the end, as James swallowed him down in full, his tongue working to the last twitch of Francis’s climax. 

James flung himself up and seated with a proud huff, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, and Francis thought he should do the same, only he was dizzy and blinkered with bliss and had not the strength.

Meanwhile Sophia and James were exchanging words over his head, becoming clearer as the seconds passed.

“... keep some of these flowers aboard, in water, perhaps, but they’d need light,” Sophia was saying. 

“Plenty of that in an Antarctic summer,” James mused. “Surely Dr. Hooker could figure out a propagation system of some kind…” 

“He’d turn this ship into Kew Gardens, should you give him leave to,” muttered Francis drowsily, “you’d best exercise caution.” 

When Francis opened his eyes he saw that James had extended him a hand: Francis took it, and very suddenly he found himself being hauled bodily upwards and towards his captain. 

And he expected then to fall into a cheerful brotherly embrace— but instead James caught him in a kiss. 

Had he been able to tell how much Francis wanted it, and was doing him a mercy? Or could it be that he’d wished for it just the same, all this time? 

Francis couldn’t help but turn his head slightly, deepen the kiss with a hand to James’s cheek, and James responded in kind, shifting closer, his hand at Francis’s waist, pulling him ever nearer. 

When Lady Jane returned from her travels and Sophia resumed reserving her affections, Francis thrilled at the thought that he could still perhaps have this, in the observatory, in the carriage from the harbor to Government House, maybe even again in this very room, or even in _Terror’s_ corresponding cabin. 

And, yes, it would only last until James returned to England, triumphant in discovery, and received that long-awaited approval for his union with Miss Coulman, but by by then Francis would have soundly secured Sophia’s hand, and her sweet mouth too. 

Still, he might yet miss it— for James kissed quite differently, with a masculine intensity and forthrightness that stirred stranger parts of Francis’s soul than Sophia could touch— but he would always have the memory, and James’s friendship besides, and that would do, he thought, for as long as he lived. Yes, it would do.

It was a few minutes yet more of quiet talk—James leaning comfortably against Francis, and one of Francis’s hands resting on Sophia’s knee— before they rose, and meandered to the mirrors at the center of the room to begin a bit of cleaning up. 

After ensuring his own uniform was presentable— as presentable it could be without further care from Jopson, that is— Francis helped Sophia at last into her innovative inside-out gown. And not a moment too soon, for as soon as he’d tied the last of the ribbons, there came the sound of murmurings and laughter outside the cabin door.

Before they could come any closer James darted forward to unlock it; merely seconds later the door swung open to admit a giggling pair: none other than Eleanor Franklin, dragging by the hand a bemused and blushing Joseph Hooker. They stopped short when they saw who they were intruding on; laughter ceased immediately, and Eleanor conspicuously freed her hand from Hooker’s and placed it daintily behind her back. 

“Hullo, Joseph!” James said, clapping an affable hand on Hooker’s shoulder. “Tired of the entertainments up top, then?” 

“I, ah,” stammered Hooker, giving a panicked look to Eleanor, who did not catch his glance because she was too busy giving a panicked look to Sophia. 

“It’s quite understandable,” Francis offered. “We all need a bit of an intermission sometimes, don’t we?” 

Hooker said quickly, “It’s just that— I spilled some wine on Miss Franklin’s dress, Captain—” 

“And we thought we might come here to try and get it out,” Eleanor finished in a rush. 

There was, indeed, a large red splotch on Eleanor’s pink dress. Francis nodded astutely, with a knowing glance to Sophia, who looked as if she were keeping down a laugh. “Best of luck with that, Miss Franklin,” he said. “It’s a tricky business, stains.” 

“Dr. Hooker, I trust you will apologize properly to the lady,” James said authoritatively, collecting his charts from where he’d left them, “and make it up to her, in such a way as she chooses.” 

“Yes, sir!” said Hooker, saluting enthusiastically. Eleanor blushed a vivid crimson. 

“If you’ll excuse us, then,” James said. He bowed Sophia out of the room, and beckoned Francis to follow on. 

“Try turning it inside out, Nell!” Sophia called over her shoulder, halfway down the corridor.

The door of the Great Cabin swung shut behind him and Francis heard whispering, shuffling, the resumption of laughter: at first nervous and then, in time, delighted.

James went up the hatchway first, then Sophia, and they were both waiting above, with outstretched hands and kind smiles, to welcome Francis as he emerged back into the shining night.

  
  


> _“Long would this occasion be remembered by every one on board; when again they returned to the icy seas of the south, where the decks would present so different an aspect from their present one— when ice and snow surrounded and encumbered them, the recollection of this hour would often revive their cheerfulness and ardour.”_
> 
> _— The Courier, Hobart, 4 June 1841_

_**_

**Author's Note:**

> in my head eleanor & hooker are played by [thomasin mckenzie & angus imrie](https://i.imgur.com/mop4lBq.png) respectively. @ hollywood i am READY and WILLING to write the entire Furthest South series, hmu plz
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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